


Molten

by tarakai714



Series: Subdued [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Hannibal Rising (2007)
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Medication, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, microdosing, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarakai714/pseuds/tarakai714
Summary: Hannibal gets stuck in the cold.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Subdued [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825081
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	1. ONE

It is a Saturday and Will knows this only because he often mirrors Hannibal’s weekly schedule. On Saturdays, he does not leave their estate, mostly because there are fewer people out on the streets walking or running errands and that—Hannibal claims—makes it difficult for him to blend in. Will suspects that Hannibal simply does not wish to admit the fact that he is less sociable than before for reasons other than being a fugitive. He seems to have found a new form of contentment that holds him in closer proximity to wherever they call home, or rather wherever Will is. And Will rarely feels inclined to leave home. Here in particular, where they seem to have settled for the longer term, Will has everything he needs at their estate. The grounds provide him with more than enough space to explore and while inside, if he does not spend his time reading or writing in the library, Will finds things to do with his hands around the house.

Will spends the entire afternoon in his study, seated by the window, reading and sipping his mug of tea. Occasionally, he looks up upon hearing the tree branches knock against the window. The wind is picking up faster than he expects and by the time he puts his book away to stretch and walk around the room, massive dark clouds have covered the sky. The forecast had mentioned a snowstorm accompanied by a heavy snowfall, but it was not supposed to hit their area until Monday evening. Hannibal insisted on going on a solo adventure to check the premises one last time before the storm. It really was not necessary, but erring on the side of caution, Will did not protest. He now wishes that he had gone with Hannibal anyway.

Will looks at the time as he picks up his mostly empty mug to take downstairs. It is barely 3:30, and by the time Will is done drying the mug and putting it away, snow has started to fall. He stands by the breakfast table, waiting for his late lunch to be warmed, as he watches the snow fall. It is persistent and overbearing, quickly covering the roof of Hannibal’s little greenhouse, and dusting the distant pines that put a barrier between their world and the outside. By 4:30, Will’s plate is in the dishwasher and as he fills the kettle to make coffee, he realizes that it is unease he is feeling, not the subtle joy he often feels when Hannibal is about to arrive after spending hours—and on occasion, days—away. Distantly he knows that Hannibal is not much fond of the snow. He knows this because Hannibal told him about it in his clinically detached tone, when he was talking about the events that led to Mischa’s death. But Hannibal has also demonstrated time and time again that he is uniquely gifted in transforming the direst of circumstances into opportunities for new experiences. And he always has his fun. A heavy snow storm is certainly not going to change that.

It is just past 5 o’clock that Will cannot sit and wait anymore. He paces the sitting room for a few minutes, checking the feeds twice, because surely if Hannibal has been attacked by an intruder or a wild animal, something must have been caught on their radar. But he finds nothing suspicious. All of the cameras are operational—although Will can only see the swift motion of the snowflakes like constant static in some of the screens—and the sensors have not picked up anything. Will lets out a quiet sigh and shuts off the laptop, leaving it on the coffee table. He lays his head back and stares at the ceiling, debating with himself whether he should get up and leave to look for Hannibal, or if he should trust that Hannibal knows what he is doing and he will soon walk in and brush the snow off his shoulders like nothing has happened.

It is starting to get dark, when Will finally surrenders and decides to retrieve the burner phone to try and locate Hannibal. He is just a few steps up the stairway when the front door opens and shuts quickly with a loud bang. Will holds on to the banister as he twists his body to call out for him: “Hannibal?” No answer comes as Will continues to stand there, listening intently for a mumbled ‘hello’ but he hears no sound from the foyer, not even the inevitable shuffling of an arrival previously impeded by a snowstorm.

When Will finally gets to the foyer, he finds Hannibal standing there, his top layers untouched despite the thick layer of snow that covers them. He is holding his arms slightly away from his body and his gloved fingers are stiff.

“Hannibal?”

Concern laces Will’s voice. Hannibal’s eyes focus on him but he is still quiet, resigned like he is incapable of making the simplest of gestures.

“Hannibal?” Gentler this time, and Will is standing just one step away from him: “Look at me.”

And he does. There is recognition there and something else that Will has never seen before, not even just before they fell, and not when Hannibal was deliriously medicated in the aftermath. He feels cold to the touch, but is not hypothermic. He probably got stuck somewhere and waited out the first bout of the storm. The trudge has clearly exhausted him. Will touches him gingerly, reverently even, not sure if Hannibal welcomes the contact. His silence scares Will. He knows about Hannibal’s mutism during the aftermath of his ordeal at the orphanage. But Hannibal’s past trauma has always seemed so far away that Will is caught off guard by how suddenly it seems to have erupted.

For now, rough exhales, hurried gasps, and gentle grunts are all Hannibal has to offer in reaction to Will’s ministrations. His hat is on the side table, clumps of now melting snow still attached to it. Will turns Hannibal’s face and demands his attention. His gloves are tugged, and he pulls his hands out of Will’s grasp, grimacing as he takes a step back. Will swallows and stands there for a moment. His fingers must have gone numb from the cold and now the barest of touches sends sharp sparks of pain through his battered nerves.

“It’s alright. Let’s forget about the gloves for now.” Hannibal swallows. He is still looking at Will apprehensively, but he does let him get close again. He kneels by Hannibal’s feet to unlace his boots, encouraging him to steady himself with a hand on Will’s shoulder as he takes off his boots.

Will manages to peel Hannibal’s top layers off him, ushering him to the bedroom, and supporting him when his stiff legs start to shake on the stairway. He looks somewhat absurd: pale and flustered, in a pair of dark slacks and woolen socks, wearing a dress shirt, and dark gloves. His hair is matted against his scalp, a few strands gone rogue, sticking to his damp forehead.

“Hannibal, hey…”

The room appears to tilt to one side but Will is there to support him. He helps Hannibal sit on the bench closest to the tub and starts a lukewarm stream. He crouches down before Hannibal to press their foreheads together.

“I know your fingers hurt, but we need to get them out of the gloves so we can warm them up.”

Hannibal’s forehead creases and he looks at his hands. His eyes are unfocused, but Will knows his voice has been registered.

“Is it alright if I help you take them off?”

Hannibal relents, lowering his head and offering both hands to Will in surrender. Will makes quick work of pulling them off his hands, inadvertently making soft sounds each time Hannibal’s fingers twitch. Peeling off his remaining clothing items is uneventful, and then Will finally helps him get in the tub. Hannibal sits there soaking quietly and when he does not make a move to wet his hair or lower himself into the warm water, Will steps closer to sit on the edge of the tub.

“Hannibal?”

Will runs his hand on his spine: “here, why don’t you sit back?”

Hannibal looks over his shoulder at the cushioned headrest, nodding once and letting Will nudge him back against it. A sigh escapes his throat and he swallows, as if to suppress a sob. Will watches his eyelids twitch and close. It is almost like he is drifting. Will runs the hot water intermittently for the better part of the next hour, increasing the temperature until Hannibal’s skin feels comfortably warm and his face is flushed to a slight pink hue.

Will has to cup his face to get his attention, hoping not to startle him out of his reverie. Hannibal blinks at him and looks away immediately to where the tub is draining fast. The plush bath towel is draped over his shoulders and Will leaves him with the promise of a swift return with a warm beverage, expecting to find him in bed by the time he comes back upstairs. But when he re-enters the bedroom minutes later, mug of chamomile tea in one hand and an extra woolen blanket in the other, Hannibal is still in the en-suite, exactly where Will left him.

Will leaves the tea on Hannibal’s bedside table and drops the extra blanket on the bed, making his way to Hannibal’s dresser, where he retrieves a pair of sleep pants and a long-sleeve shirt. It is obvious that Hannibal does not wish to be touched much at the moment and that makes it difficult for Will to help him get dressed. Hannibal is a proud man, but pride is not the only thing that drives him to push Will’s hand out of the way when he reaches out to steady him as he pulls on his pants. Hannibal sleeps in the nude, or at least without a shirt, whenever possible. But Will thinks an extra layer might help him keep the memory of the cold away, so he is glad to see Hannibal pull on the shirt. Will gives him a little more room to move about as he takes a step back to throw the towel in the hamper. Done with dressing himself, Hannibal walks out of the bathroom while Will tidies up.

When Will leaves the en-suite, Hannibal is standing there in the middle of the bedroom watching the blizzard through the half-drawn curtains.

“Hannibal?”

He looks at Will and swallows.

Will nods in the direction of the nightstand: “I made you tea. Do you want to drink it in bed, under the covers while it’s still warm?”

Hannibal does not nod, but obeys by getting settled in bed and reaching out to pick up the mug from the nightstand. Will picks up the woolen blanket and drapes it over the duvet, not wishing to unsettle Hannibal any more than he already is.

He leaves Hannibal alone to make his rounds in the house, making sure that all the windows and doors are locked, and the security feeds are live and problem-free. Upstairs, he finds Hannibal sitting upright in bed, the almost empty mug still in his lap, grasped by loose fingers. He is looking at the window, at the pale blue light dotted by the shadows of falling snowflakes. His eyes are slightly wide, but he is calm, and quite distant in his calmness. Will says nothing as he walks around to appear in his view. He slowly pulls the curtains shut, allowing the yellow light of the side lamp cast a warm glow over the bed.

“Hannibal?”

He just blinks at Will in acknowledgement. Will touches his hands, feeling his warm palm, pulling his sleeves down to cover his wrists.

“Did you get stuck?” And his voice carries such promise of kindness.

Hannibal nods.

“But you found your way.” Will reaches out gingerly, putting an arm around his shoulders and bringing him flush against his side: “you always do.”

Will holds him then, just as he is: childlike and a bit broken. He notices the way Hannibal’s hands are balled up in loose fists, and slides closer still. He takes his hands, gently unfurling his fingers, kissing the palm of each without lingering. He hears Hannibal’s wet hitched breath but does not speak, nor does he seek his eyes. Instead, Will holds Hannibal close, feeling the cold tip of his nose brush against his neck, the feeling contrasted by the constant puff of warmth from his deepening breaths. When Hannibal falls asleep, Will stays awake for another hour, running his thumb along his temple, stroking soft strands back. When Hannibal stirs, Will holds him just a bit tighter, cradling his head and bunching the duvet up around him. He becomes a part of the cocoon that eventually lulls himself to sleep too.


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy morning and some quiet time.

The bedroom is still comfortably dark when Will opens his eyes. He sighs as he hears the wind howl outside, knowing well that a little bit of sun would have lifted Hannibal’s spirits significantly. Hannibal is lying on his side facing the wall, but he is awake. Will can hear him swallow and as soon as he stirs to reach for Hannibal, he makes to get up from the bed. It is such a sudden movement that Will has to support himself on an elbow so he can gently grab his shoulder to stop him: “Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s body goes stiff for a moment, but he allows Will to lay him back on the mattress. Brows furrowed, Will covers them up with the duvet: “stay here for a bit.” He keeps his touches light, not sure where Hannibal is in the moment.

“Are you alright?”

Hannibal nods and the gesture is so swift that it borders on a twitch. Will runs his hands over Hannibal’s side, stretching his body under the covers to accommodate his curled figure. Hannibal’s tension does not leave him, though. He lies there, eyes shut, hands resting in front of him in a heap of barely grasping fingers. Will kisses his hair and tries to turn him in his embrace but Hannibal refuses to shift about, and Will’s heart breaks when he sees the way he is holding his eyes shut.

“Hey...” He is still flush against Hannibal’s back, buttressed on an elbow, hand resting on his body but all movement ceased: “Do you want to be alone?” Will does not think Hannibal should be alone right now, but he can disappear for a little while to give him space to collect himself. “I can make us breakfast… bring it upstairs…” Will does not want to ramble, so he takes a breath and falls silent, watching Hannibal intently. Hannibal swallows and lets out a measured breath and slowly reaches out to take Will’s hand in his. He does relax eventually, in increments, letting out a sigh and silently prompting Will to wrap his arms around him. He does not turn to face Will, however, and Will does not mind that; he is content to keep Hannibal warm, knowing that he is at home with him, a bit shaken, but his to mend and soothe. He wants to tell Hannibal that it is alright that he got stuck, because Will would have found him and brought him home.

Hannibal has no qualms about discussing his childhood. He has compartmentalized sections of his past so neatly that he can speak of the brief time he had with his sister with boyish joy, without allowing it to become marred by the darkness of what came next. Yet, even though Will applauds him for that, he can see through Hannibal’s carefully knit façade, because as soon as the discussion moves toward his vulnerability as a child, he quickly shifts into his clinical headspace. It is unfortunate for him that this time he has been thrown into one of the darkest rooms of his memory palace so unexpectedly that he has not had the luxury of raising his shield.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” And Hannibal knows he is not talking about yesterday afternoon’s ordeal.

“Let’s just take it easy today.” He lets his lips touch Hannibal’s clothed shoulder: “I’ll make us coffee while you take a hot shower. We can read for a bit, or you can try to entice me into another game of backgammon.” He pauses for a beat: “Maybe I’ll let you let me win this time.”

A sad smile is all Hannibal can muster up at the thought of playing the game with Will, trying to provoke him into gently competitive banter. Will squeezes his bicep before getting up. He pulls on a knit sweater and a pair of woolen socks, kneeling by Hannibal’s side on his way out: “hey.” He hesitates because Hannibal has this agonized look on his face that is difficult to watch.

“Hannibal.”

Will cups his cheek, running the edge of his thumb along Hannibal’s temple. His hair is so soft there, so soft that Will cannot help but pull himself forward to kiss him there, and then lower, savoring the flutter of Hannibal’s eyelids under his lips. Will sits back on his heels then, searching Hannibal’s gaze: “it’s alright if you just want to stay in bed.”

Hannibal shakes his head.

* * *

Hannibal looks clean but unkempt, and certainly more lively than the previous evening. His hair is still damp but he has made no effort to comb or sweep it in any specific direction. He has dressed himself in a dark turtleneck and woolen slacks, and is standing just outside the kitchen looking dazed. Will observes him from the sink, where he is rinsing the porcelain dripper. He goes to him with two small mugs of coffee, handing one to Hannibal and pulling out a chair for him at the breakfast table.

It does not take long for Hannibal to push the almost full plate of eggs away and the only reason Will does not protest is that he does manage to eat a few slices of apple and a piece of toast. They settle on the couch in Hannibal’s study, with Will managing to coax him to lie down under a fleece throw. He holds Hannibal’s feet in his lap as they both read and sip their coffee for a while. Hannibal eventually shuts his book and places it on the side table. Will does not look away from his own book, but he glances at the way Hannibal fidgets to get more comfortable, almost lying on his side, facing the couch cushions. Will keeps slowly stroking his socked feet under the throw.

Another hour passes until Will hears his voice, quiet and small, muffled within the confined space between his face and the cushions: “I’m so sorry, Will.”

Will’s hand stills and he has to take a steadying breath to keep his voice even before he speaks: “whatever for?”

It takes Hannibal a long while to respond to him, and Will is happy to wait patiently until he finds the words.

“For not being present.”

It must have been easier for him to deal with days like this when he was living his intentionally solitary life. And while cohabiting with Bedelia—a stint that lasted only a few months—Hannibal had been riding the high tide of his destructive conquest in Baltimore. Will cannot help but wonder how Hannibal coped after Matthew Brown slashed his wrists and kicked the bucket from under his feet. Did he lose his appetite then too? Or was he too euphoric to have survived Will’s vengeance?

Will puts his book away and turns to face Hannibal, still gently holding on to his warm feet: “Sleep, Hannibal. I’ll wake you up for lunch.” Hannibal hums, a brief rumble in his chest, as Will covers him up with the throw. He is almost out the door when he hears Hannibal’s voice.

“Not hungry.”

Will stops and takes the few steps back to the couch, leaning to rest his elbow on the backrest so he can see Hannibal’s face: “No? How about some tea?” He reaches out, his index and middle fingers gently brushing away the stray strands that have twisted against Hannibal’s forehead, covering one eye.

Hannibal turns his head, slightly so, and holds Will’s gaze. His lips are pursed as his eyes search Will’s face for something. Will watches those tightly sealed lips that occasionally quiver until they finally part: “tea sounds lovely.” He takes Will’s hand then and lifts himself up into a seated position. Will touches his neck from behind, thumbs kneading into the tense flesh, before bringing his hands down squeeze Hannibal’s shoulders. He bends down and nuzzles Hannibal’s hair, kissing his crown: “I’ll be back soon.”

Hannibal’s hands stop him: “I am glad you are here.”

Will sighs and comes around to sit by Hannibal’s side, because when you are presumed dead and living an isolated life with only one other human in close proximity, avoiding emotional discussions is not a viable resolution.

“Where else would I be?”

Hannibal has gone quiet again, but he does look at Will to offer him a genuine smile. Will eventually feels obligated to break the silence again: “Abigail was always going to be her own person, regardless of the depth or intensity of outside influences—yours or mine—but… I had seen so much potential in the possibility of simply being there for her that her death felt like a personal failure.” Will swallows and wipes his palms on his knees. They have talked about this before, never in details, albeit details seem unnecessary when Will has bad nights. Hannibal once found him on the floor of their kitchen, clutching at his gut, completely unaware of his immediate surroundings, wailing silently each time he heard Hannibal’s voice. And yet, Will knows that he cannot even begin to understand the pain of losing someone like Mischa.

“She was mine to protect.” Hannibal flexes his neck as he leans back with a deep sigh.

“Mine to keep,” he corrects after a beat, and Will’s breath catches in his throat. He has no words in response, so he grabs the backrest, anchoring himself on one knee, so he can plant a kiss on Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal sighs and turns so he can reciprocate by nuzzling Will’s hair, one hand slowly snaking beneath Will’s sweater, feeling for the raised scar across his belly. Hannibal rarely touches Will there intentionally, because every time he does, something heavy materializes inside his ribcage. It makes him burst and spill. Hannibal is well aware of his insidiously narcissistic side, the one that revels in knowing the magnitude of his own wrath; of how close he came to destroying the one thing that he so deeply cherished. Will Graham too was his to keep, and he almost discarded of him. Then he tried to devour him, just so he could become him, at least in part, so they would never have to be separated or consumed by others. Their bodies join haphazardly now, sprawled around each other over the sofa. There is hardly any rhythm to the way they move, and neither seems bothered by that. He lets Hannibal lead, huffing when his body is crushed in a tight embrace that Will cannot call anything but desperate. Gentle kisses trace the line that is often hidden beneath Will’s hair, so Hannibal can devour him this way instead.

Will allows Hannibal his ministrations. Seeing himself in association with Hannibal has been a liberating experience for Will, and as time passes, he realizes that he does not resent the scars Hannibal has given him. He did gut Hannibal first, the entire infrastructure of his empathy failing him, as he in turn failed to recognize Hannibal’s true intentions. Of course, Hannibal was the one who started the unprompted gaslighting, weaving Will into an elaborate plot without his consent, but he never truly intended for Will to die. Hannibal’s Florentine fever had the sweet scent of revenge, not against Will, but against the cruel world that was once again denying him what he willed to be his.

Hannibal goes quiet again afterwards but Will reads enough contentment on his features that he decides not to push. He kisses Hannibal again once they are on their feet, holding him close: “why don’t you go upstairs to freshen up? I’ll go make that tea for us, and meet you there.” He is thinking of putting together a light meal too, but he does not mention that to Hannibal, hoping to find a way to coax him to eat.

Hannibal seems to consider Will’s words for a moment: “I would rather be here, if you don’t mind.”

Will kisses him again: “I don’t. Go. I’ll see you in a bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would be canon for these two to end up in warm places, but:
> 
> A) It physically hurts me to write about heat. I can tolerate being in warm places to a certain degree, but I certainly do not thrive in heat.
> 
> B) Cuba would be such a delight for Hannibal (picture him in that godawful white linen suit, prancing through the market), but for Will, it would be like Encephalitis meets Louisiana.
> 
> And I wanted to give Will a break.


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal self-medicates (CW).

Will makes the tea he had promised Hannibal, and while he waits for it to brew, he puts together two small sandwiches and a bowl of fruits. Hannibal emerges at the threshold just after Will has finished pouring the tea. He has showered, again, and his skin looks flushed. His hair is now neatly combed back, exposing his smooth forehead and pale eyebrows. Will always admires the way Hannibal’s skin glows from a distance: all smooth plains and sharp angles. But then, from an intimate angle, one only accessible to Will now, lines dip and converge in the semblance of an ancient treasure map. Will has a few favorite spots there he likes to trace—with his fingers or lips—when they lie close by.

“Want to hang out here or should we go back to the study?”

Hannibal hesitates for a beat, but then, with a faint smile, he walks into the kitchen and picks up a silver serving tray, making his way to where Will stands.

“I think the sunroom should be nice and cozy for us to… _weather the storm._ ” His tone is light despite the way he accentuates the final words.

Will smiles: “No pun intended, huh?”

He wonders if he should tell Hannibal that he does not need to prove anything by spending an entire afternoon surrounded by something that has clearly distressed him. But as he watches Hannibal’s uncharacteristically slow movements while he fills the tray with what Will has prepared, other possibilities occur to him.

“What have you taken, Hannibal?” Will asks, his brows knit now.

Will has to consider two things: first and foremost, Hannibal cannot be deterred from his spontaneous outbursts; and second, playing fast and loose with drugs is an intrinsic part of Hannibal’s modus operandi. But Hannibal is always the one administering the drugs to others. So seeing him the way he is now is akin to walking into uncharted territory.

The sunroom is bright and cold, dipped in the thicket of snow that has covered the backyard. Will can barely spot Hannibal’s greenhouse under the piling snow. But there is decent insulation and an antique wood stove—refurbished by Will himself—that provides sufficient heat to give a semblance of being still indoors. Hannibal deposits the tray on the side table and proceeds to put more wood in the fire.

“Hannibal.” Will touches his elbow, careful not to startle him: “this is a rather aggressive course of treatment; don’t you think?” Will’s tone carries no judgement.

Hannibal seems to genuinely consider Will’s words while he makes himself comfortable under a blanket on the leather couch: “it’s more of an experiment, if you will.” He lets that thought simmer in Will’s head for a moment: “but no, I don’t think any form of treatment should be considered ‘aggressive,’ if there is appropriate context for it.”

Will sits by his side, still apprehensive. Hannibal reaches into his slacks’ pocket and brings out a small unlabeled vial, holding it out to Will: “I had considered microdosing as a treatment option for you, but then I thought it is only fair if I try it on myself before making the suggestion.”

Will sighs: “well, you are kind of making the suggestion now anyway.” He does not ask him if he truly intended to ‘suggest’ the treatment or was he simply going to _administer_ it and see what would happen. Instead, Will reaches over and takes the vial only to place it gently on the side table, out of Hannibal’s reach. He holds Hannibal’s face in his hands then, not at all surprised to see his pupils blown, ensconced only by a narrow rim of ochre.

“This is not about me, and you’re not _microdosing_ right now, Hannibal.”

Hannibal wants to say something in protest, but Will kisses him silent, gently, politely, before pulling away: “we can discuss it later, but for now, if you need to let go, Hannibal… just let go. I’ll be right here with you.”

Hannibal sighs, nodding his head once, and leans back to watch the snow fall against the glass ceiling. Will lets out a long sigh and makes himself comfortable by his side. The insulated glass muffles the sounds of the storm, and for a short while, all they do is sip their tea and listen to the crackling of the firewood.

Will decides to break the silence eventually, hoping to keep Hannibal from drifting too far away: “I feel like we’re inside an inverted snow globe.”

Hannibal hums in consideration, craning his neck to look at the sharp angles of the rectangular ceiling: “more like a lantern.”

Will gives him a baffled look.

Hannibal gives him a toothy relaxed smile in return: “my mother had a bronze lantern in her dressing room. Inside of it, there was a little boy herding a row of sheep.” He makes a swirling gesture with his hand: “with silver and white glitter floating about.”

Will feigns an accusatory tone, narrowing his eyes: “did you break the lantern, Hannibal?”

Hannibal’s chuckle is brief and airy: “I was tempted, but no, Mischa got to it first.”

“Good for her.”

Hannibal is still smiling: “Yes, I suppose it was. Although my mother was not pleased that she put some of the glitter in her mouth before someone could stop her.”

Will’s brows furrow, even though he tries hard to give Hannibal a faint smile. There really is not much Will can offer him in terms of understanding his pain. Perhaps through his extreme empathy, Will can recognize Hannibal’s pain—feel it even—but the fact remains that his idea of familial bonds is drastically different from Hannibal’s, as Will never had much of a family to lose.

Hannibal has vaguely alluded to being “abused” at the orphanage, but Will does not need details to know what that abuse entailed. And Hannibal—for his part—seems to have effectively dealt with his trauma, whether by the pursuit of revenge, or through living a life of luxury wherein he makes sure that every single desire of his is cultivated. But comfort, the kind that is not sought but given freely at the right moment, is what Hannibal never had before Will. So touch is what Will _knows_ Hannibal appreciates, and it is something he can offer in abundance.

Wordlessly, Will gathers Hannibal’s feet, lifting them onto his lap, and starts to gently knead his instep arch. He clears his throat: “I remember you reading to me when we first got here. I couldn’t talk. I was irritable… close to madness from the pain and stress of everything that had happened. And you…” Will swallows and looks at Hannibal for a moment: “you were there every night, reading aloud just so I would fall asleep.” Another pause, and Will looks down at his thumb pressed against Hannibal’s heel: “and I think it’s ridiculous that I never told you how much I appreciated that.”

“It was my pleasure, Will.”

Will smiles at him as he slides from the couch. He tucks Hannibal’s feet under the blanket and moves to stoke the fire: “maybe I can return the favor?”

Hannibal sighs, and Will is overjoyed to see him finally reaching out for a slice of fruit: “I would love that, Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re: Hannibal's attempt at "self-medication:"  
> I intentionally have avoided getting too specific/descriptive, but I feel like I need to put a "Do Not Try This at Home" sign somewhere around here. I don't like to over-tag, so I keep my tags minimal. But I would truly appreciate being reminded of issues that I can resolve by better tagging.

**Author's Note:**

> Many warm wishes for you, my dear friend and fellow survivor of the shitstorm that was 2020!


End file.
